You Can Choose Your Family

They had decided to name him Gleb.

Others, once wrenched from their stunned stupor, would ask, with nervous politeness, why they chose that name, to which Russia or America would explain, "He looks like a Gleb."

No one saw what they meant, and only a few said so.

"Well, Ivan wanted a Russian first name," Alfred would elaborate, sometimes without invitation, too blinded by overwhelming pride to search for such cues. "So, we settled with something a bit unique, short, simple, strong. And as a compromise to that, he has my first name as his middle. Gleb Alfredovich! Not gonna hear that name anywhere else!"

Russia, all the while, always somehow looked both near tears and near murderous with love and pride for his little family. For some, this was a deterrent. For others, particularly their female colleagues, they simply flocked over to inspect the little bundle of joy, cooing and congratulating. When such a swarm of affection converged on their beautiful child, the two nations beamed.

Nestled in their strong hold sat their child, Gleb, an inanimate, unused trash bag, crinkled yet otherwise pristine. None of the other nations, whether they played along or ran along, had witnessed the scene that ignites this new set of family dynamics, had not seen when the two countries were cleaning America's garage, and Russia had re-entered the room with the bag draped over his arm just so, so as to resemble the nestling blankets of a newborn baby. None of them had seen America playfully pretend to coo at the "baby" and fuss over the "new" father, Russia, had not seen Russia's roll of the eyes and tired chuckle… or the pause before he decided to continue the charade.

No one had seen how, as one longing couple, Russia and America had simply let their joke continue and expand into… not a reality, but simply a concept they were finding too much unsatisfied enjoyment in.

No one quite saw what Russia meant when, with a satisfied smile, he boasted, "He has a good, strong Russian nose. And keen eyes."

Apparently America saw it, for he made a show of looking down at their son, now cradled in Russia's arms, and nodding. "Sure does, babe. And good thing too. More he takes after his big tough, cuddly Russian papa bear, the safer he'll be."

Russia simpered. "Only if he also is fierce and dreams big like his flighty, stubborn American mama."

That good, strong, Russian nose received a flick in protest. "Don't you think that role goes to you, Mother Russia?"

Russia straightened in his seat, adjusting his hold on the flat, nondescript plastic bag that was their son. "Well, symbolically, yes, it is very important that I am the mother to all my people, the dear children of Russia." He refocused his attention on Gleb. "But to this little one, I shall be the papa he looks to for guidance of how to be powerful and immovable. He will need that if he is to be successful cosmonaut."

America frowned. "Cosmonaut, eh? You just decided this on your own?"

"It was easy decision," Russia explained, reaching into the powder blue duffel bag in which he carried baby formula. "He shall serve Roscosmos and make us all proud while colonizing Mars."

"A: not if NASA exclusively gets there first, and B: I actually think archeologist suits him better. He can be safe on earth digging up secrets of the past and make a name for himself and learn about the history of his ancestors."

"My son? Rolling around in the dirt, possibly encountering some cursed talisman of a vengeful spirit? No. My son will be highly decorated cosmonaut, win Hero of the Russian Federation, and retire with enough money to settle us into comfortable dacha by a lake."

"Oh, YOUR son?" America bristled immediately, arms folded tight over his chest.

"Yes, my son!" Russia said, voice raising in volume. He rose, holding baby Gleb tight to his chest. "I birthed him, and took care of him while you begged and pleaded with China to lessen the crippling debt you owe him. What kind of irresponsible parent would risk his son inheriting that?"

"YOU JUST SAID YOU DIDN'T WANT TO BE HIS MOTHER."

"Both of you. Calm. Down." In one fluid motion, Hungary had separated them by about fifteen feet, and had secured Gleb in a firm but comforting hold. "You'll wake him."

Poland shot her an incredulous look, motioning to Russia with a look that clearly said the country has finally lost it completely. Hungary pressed a finger to her lips, eyes alight. Fortunately, both Russia and America were focused on each other, expressions downcast, shoulders sagging.

"We should not be fighting," Russia said solemnly.

America nodded. "Y-yeah. For G's sake. And besides… we… I mean… he has plenty of time to figure out what he wants to do with his life. And we'll support whatever that is." Both countries met each other's gaze, faces set, and nodded. Satisfied, Hungary returned the crinkled, empty trash bag to them, and the trio embraced as a family made more whole.

It would not be easy, and it would not be perfect. But such was life and love with a family of any sort. For as Lev Tolstoy wrote, "happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

They would not always get it right, and there was no universal solution to any of their problems. But they were unique and they were together.

THE END

This is utter crack and if you read this, I'm sorry. Blame Vaecordia. We were talking, and she brought this up and I felt the need to make it real. Pretty much everything about this was a mistake born from a joke, and also RusAme wanting to have a family together. Again…I'm just so sorry.